2.29.12

Chaucer wakes up early and starts begging for breakfast immediately. I'd love another two hours of sleep, I'm sore from work last night, but I'm up.

A friend calls, wanting to know if I'd like to do some paid creative work for him. I'm game, and we set a time for tomorrow to figure out the details. After we hang up, I remember that it's Wednesday and text him back: Buy you lunch at the farmer's market? He says sure, and ten minutes later I meet him at Pershing Square, where the market is in full swing with vendors selling locally grown/made fruits, vegetables, nuts, eggs, soaps, candles, pies, and more.



We make a quick refill run to 7-11 (he's addicted to Diet Coke) before returning to the market and getting kebabs with rice and grilled vegetables. We eat at a table in the sun, curiously watching a group nearby. It's a seated circle of six or seven demographically diverse people, in the center of which play some dogs. It looks like some kind of therapy session, but we can't figure out why the dogs are there. We guess at the conversation: Coco, it's good to see you back at group; it's been a long time....Now, Rex, it's Muffy's turn to talk. Please wait until she's finished, and then you can speak.

Over lunch, he tells me about his latest idea for a creative business. He's already decided to buy the main piece of equipment he'd need. We talk about three of our favorite subjects: puppies, ex-boyfriends, and the shortsightedness of Republicans. He's a font freak like me, and I tell him about the awesome, name-your-own-price foundry I just discovered.

I mention I'm in the market for a road bike, and he suggests we walk over and check out the selection at a nearby shop where he's had some work done on his own. He doesn't yet know it, but he's just signed on to an hour ordeal involving me looking at and test-riding bikes, and ultimately falling in love with this beauty:



While I'm kicking tires, he reads to me from the events section of the local paper. We make plans to try out a new restaurant, and possibly attend the upcoming Beerathon.

Somehow, the nearby Bradbury Building comes up, and when he finds out I've never seen it, insists on taking me. It's an architectural and historical landmark downtown, and he's flabbergasted I've not yet been inside of it. He's right; it's incredible:



The Bradbury is where, among other films, Blade Runner was shot. Being inside of it is like stepping into a time machine. I'd never seen an exposed mail chute before.



The space is beautifully maintained. I couldn't find a speck of dust on any of the intricate wrought ironwork. I couldn't get over the elevator cages.



We walk back to his apartment, where we bring his dog downstairs to visit with two others in the building, on the faux grassed patio of a neighbor he's become friends with. The small-town girl in me with a still-strong tendency to be starstruck, despite my constant exposure to The Industry, is tickled to learn that this neighbor is the director of an extremely popular, award winning television show. He's not home when we go downstairs, but my friend has a key. We let ourselves into his loft to allow the dogs some play time together.



Love is a longhaired doxie puppy named Duncan.



As I step carefully around this stranger's home, I mentally inventory the pieces I recognize: Eames Lounge Chair, Arco lamp, Eames molded plywood dining chairs. I glance curiously at the two huge monitors on his desktop, thinking dorky, provincial thoughts like, Neat stuff happens there.

I leave soon afterward, feeling inspired and upbeat.